


What To Say and How To Say It

by teaberryblue



Category: Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: And Mom Emmas, Friendship, Gen, Mom jeans, POV Rachel, Possible Hinted Kitty/Rachel, Post Iceman #2, Post X-Men Black: Emma Frost, Post X-Men Gold #36, Post X-Men Red #11, Teamwork, Telepath Social Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 03:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17236511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue
Summary: After Rachel recovers from Mesmero's manipulations, Jean Grey reminds her she's just a call away.Rachel takes her up on it.





	What To Say and How To Say It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellarose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarose/gifts).



> This is for StellaRose as part of the X-Plain Holiday Fic X-Change!
> 
> Thanks to GrayJay for the beta help!

“They feel weird,” Jean confided, splaying her fingers out wide, as if she were framing her coffee cup with her index fingers and thumbs. “Heavier. I keep chipping them.

Rachel frowned, studying Jean’s fingernails intently. They were nearly the same shade as Jean’s skin, if a little glossier and a little smoother than Rachel’s own, ragged-edged nails. “I honestly wouldn’t have noticed. I somehow doubt they would have, I don’t know, _barred_ you from the General Assembly if your manicure wasn’t up to snuff.” 

Jean gave Rachel a lopsided smile, and then raised her coffee as if she were toasting. She took a sip, and looked thoughtful for a moment. “We need more biscotti,” she announced, into the din of the coffee shop. 

The sounds of other customers chatting, the clanking of cups, the occasionally too-broadly-telegraphed thought from the surrounding tables all melted into a soothing, low drone. Jean’s voice cut through it all, speaking directly into Rachel’s mind, inquisitive and concerned.

 _C’mon. You didn’t want to talk about nail polish._

Rachel pursed her lips, and shrugged, and finally shook her head. _I broke up with Kurt_ , she answered, abruptly.

It wasn’t what she’d planned on saying. But all that-- all that was too complicated, a big knot that couldn’t be untangled with a sweep of an Alexandrian blade. This seemed to be the easiest snarl to address. 

Jean’s eyes widened. Her expression softened in sympathy, and her hand reached across the table to touch the back of Rachel’s own. Jean’s expression reminded her of her own mother’s face every time Rachel had her small heart broken. It was a bittersweet thing, flooding her with warmth at the same time that the back of her throat tightened. 

“Right,” said Jean, chipping another one of her nails as she tapped her fingers too hard against the tabletop. “Biscotti.” 

Jean sat, and dipped cookies in her coffee while Rachel tried to distill the apprehension wound up in her head into feelings, and then into pictures that she could share. PIctures were easier than words. She wasn’t sure there _were_ words for all of this. Certainly not in English; maybe some impossibly long compound word in German. She made a mental note to ask Kurt. 

Jean let out a slow breath as Rachel got to the image of Scott dead on the ground. Rachel had to remind herself that what she’d seen wasn’t what had really happened, that it had been Young Scott, not Old Scott, not _their_ Scott, who had already _been_ dead by then, although then she started thinking about _Old_ Scott, dead and none of them knowing for all that time, and…

“I thought I killed him,” Rachel murmured aloud. 

Jean cocked her head to one side. _Classic Summers_ , she answered, with a hint of humor that was disquieting in the tumult of Rachel’s own emotions. _But don’t you usually just add a few more spikes to your uniform when you want to keep people away?_

And Rachel had to smile, but she made a face at Jean, nonetheless. _Better than finding an excuse to snuff out your own life in a noble burst of fiery self-sacrifice,_ , she retorted. 

Jean snorted coffee out her nose. “Well,” she sputtered, wiping her face with her hand. “On that very dignified note…” She looked down at her shirt, splattered with little brown splotches. 

Rachel tsked. “Didn’t Professor X make you spend, like, hours learning how to sip tea in the Danger Room?” 

_It’s all this...public life_ , Jean answered. _I don’t have a lot of chances to let my guard down. Do you know how much time I spend just trying to make people look the other way, these days?_

Suddenly, Rachel heard Jean’s voice in her ears, not in her mind, but Jean’s mouth wasn’t moving at all. She looked up, and then realized that Jean’s voice was coming from the coffeeshop speakers, enunciating clearly with a message of love and unity. Jean’s face was on the television screens mounted on the walls, giving a speech to avid onlookers.

The man at the table next to them flicked his gaze over toward the two women with a curious look. Rachel sent a subtle suggestion to him that Jean _couldn’t_ be the woman on the television, see how their noses weren’t quite the same, how Jean’s chin was rounder? 

The man went back to looking at the television set. Rachel watched it, too, watching the woman who looked so much like her mother, speaking with such conviction and love.

“You’re doing good,” she told Jean, quietly. She hoped it sounded reassuring. 

Jean’s phone buzzed, and then buzzed again. 

Rachel’s eyes went to the screen before she realized she was being rude, and glanced aside. “Do you need to get that?” 

“It’s just--” Jean groaned. “Every time I’m on TV, this happens. The MSA wants me to run for office. I swear; I was at a party the other night-- a charity event, and this _man_ came up to me; he was just so _persistent_ , I had to recruit _Namor_ to run interference-- and it turned out he wasn’t flirting at _all_ ; he was trying to get me to come to an MSA mixer.” 

She scrolled through the messages on her phone. “MSA, MSA, here’s a press inquiry, dentist appointment… _oh_.” 

Jean’s expression stilled, became inscrutable, but there was a brief thought that flickered, too bright, through Rachel’s mind. 

“That’s different,” Jean said quietly, looking at the message on her phone. 

Rachel bit her lip. “What does _she_ want?”

“Corporate backing,” Emma explained, tapping the side of her crystal champagne flute with one finger— delicately, as if, even in her current form, she might snap the stem with a single touch.

Now, up close, Rachel had to admit she _could_ tell the difference when someone had a good manicure. Emma’s nails were perfectly squared, softly pearlescent, without a scratch or a chip in sight, the sort of nails that probably required UV light and powerful psychic suggestion to maintain.

Rachel pushed her food around on her plate and quietly wished _she_ had coffee spilled down her front, just for the audacity of it. She couldn’t help but admire the contrast of this room, with its glistening lacquer and gleaming antiquities, against Jean’s sloppy tee shirt and mom jeans. 

The Hellfire Club still made her skin crawl, still raised all her internal warning systems to high alert, no matter how many times she told herself she was safe this time. And Jean seemed-- if not at ease, at least _unconcerned_. 

“Oh, no,” Jean said, shaking her head. She laughed, lightly. “I’m not running for anything, no matter what anyone says.” Her own plate was empty, and she was holding a glass of red wine in one hand, swirling it idly so that the liquid rolled around, catching the light, reflecting the same ruby tones as Jean’s hair.

Emma smiled, and there was something different about this smile. It didn’t seem _practiced_ , or _strategic_. It seemed genuine, even warm, which surprised Rachel.

“I didn’t think you would,” Emma assured Jean. “What a waste of all your hard work, to get tied up in _fundraising_ and _bureaucracy_ when there’s so much good you can do in your current role. You’re--” 

Emma drew a breath, and the look she gave Jean was nothing short of _inspired_. She threaded her fingers together, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “Perfectly positioned. Better than any of us have been in a long time.” 

Rachel guessed it was futile, but she tried, anyhow, to worm her way into Emma’s thoughts, not quite trusting this to be more than an act. But her probes were met, as she expected, with the slippery, glasslike feeling that came with a more practiced telepath locking her out. 

Jean raised an eyebrow, and Rachel supposed Jean must be feeling as cautious as she was. It was hard to tell, though, and Jean’s mind was as closed to her as Emma’s. 

The wine in Jean’s glass started swirling in patterns that couldn’t have possibly resulted from the mere motion of the glass-- a crazy-eight, a star, a spiral.

Even if Rachel didn’t know what Jean was thinking, she could at least trust that, eventually, Jean would say exactly what was on her mind.

“What do you want from me?” Jean asked.

Emma was quiet. She picked up her glass again, regarded the glinting bubbles in the liquid before putting it down without drinking, and pressed her hands down against the lily-white table linens. 

When she looked back up, her eyes were glassy, her lips drawn together tightly. 

“I want--”

An image flickered in Rachel’s mind; a picture of a young, redheaded girl, a girl who was almost, but not quite, her own mirror, a girl with a short bob and long fringe of bangs, and a smudge of something-- motor oil? Soot?-- on her cheek. 

Emma took a deep breath. “My father died,” she said, in a clipped tone. 

“Oh, I’m so--” Jean started. The way she was looking at Emma-- her eyes wide, her lips parted-- hinted to Rachel that Jean might have seen the same thing. 

“Aneurysm,” Emma answered, with a wave of her hand. “It is what it is. We weren’t _close_. But that leaves me managing the _family_ interests on top of my own; heaven knows _Cordy_ has no business sense. And I’ve just begun my tenure here, and you can’t _imagine_ the way the maintenance has been neglected in this beautiful old building, so to be perfectly honest with you, darling, I don’t have time to _think_ about anything else, let alone what sort of _demands_ I’d be making of you when you’re doing so well on your own. This isn’t _transactional_.” 

Jean blinked and lowered her glass, the wine going suddenly still.

The room was silent for what seemed like a solid minute. Rachel strained to read a hint of _anything_ off either of the other women, but their minds were as tight as lockboxes. All she had to go by was an apprehensive glint in Jean’s eye and Emma’s expectantly raised eyebrow. 

Their gazes were locked on each other, and Rachel felt compelled to breathe as quietly as she could, as if even the slightest disruption could cause a seismic disaster.

The quiet-- in the room, in her head-- made her itch.

“Media training,” Jean said, finally, and abruptly. 

Emma pressed her index fingers together. “Media training,” she echoed. 

Jean nodded. “I know what to say. I need to know how to say it. I have the world’s ear. I need to keep it.” 

Jean put one hand to her heart. “I don’t want to _be_ anything other than what I am, but you-- you know how to show people what they need to see.” 

Rachel thought she saw Emma’s lip quiver, just slightly.

“Very well.” Emma gave Jean a long look, her eyes traveling from the crown of Jean’s hair down to her unremarkable, sensible shoes, and back. “I must insist, however,” she said smoothly, composure entirely regained. “That you allow me to retain a personal stylist on your behalf if you’re going to keep making nationally televised appearances.” 

Jean smiled-- a warm, open smile, and raised her glass. “Thank you,” she said, and Rachel knew from her tone that it was entirely sincere. There was a finality, there, and something else that Rachel couldn’t quite grasp, but from the way Emma nodded back at Jean, it seemed as if Emma, at least, understood. 

Emma’s gaze drifted down to Rachel’s still-half-uneaten meal. “I can get you something else, if this isn’t to your liking.” 

Rachel tensed at the unexpected attention. “It’s fine,” she said, more brusquely than she intended. “Work’s been hard, is all.” 

“Ah,” Emma said, and gave her a calculating look that set the hair on the back of her neck on end. “You’ve been working with Miss Pryde, haven’t you?” 

Rachel nodded. “Mostly.” 

“How is she doing? After all the--” Emma trailed off, gesturing with her hand as if to suggest some sort of trivial nonsense. 

“Okay,” Rachel replied. “I...guess? She broke off her _wedding_ , so…” 

Emma chuckled, one of her _calculated_ chuckles. “We all knew that wasn’t really going to last, didn’t we? Not when she’s still in love with _you_.” 

Rachel bristled.

“Emma--” Jean said, slowly, a warning tone.

“ _Really?_ ” Emma asked, focusing on Jean, with the patient look of an adult talking over the child in the room. “She’s nearly as powerful as we are; I don’t see how she manages to remain so _oblivious_.” 

Rachel coughed.

Emma glanced at her. “Or is it obstinate?”

**Author's Note:**

> Here are the transcriptions for the Text Message images:
> 
>  
> 
> MESSAGE WITH: New Old Jean  
> Rachel: mom  
> Rachel: mom  
> Rachel: MOM  
> Jean: Still not your mom.  
> Rachel: heyyyy mom  
> Jean: What's up?  
> Rachel: so you know how you said I could call you?  
> Rachel: SO  
> Rachel: does this count?
> 
> MESSAGE WITH: Maybe: Frost Te...
> 
> Emma: Jean, this is Emma. I am extending an invitation to dinner in my private room at the Hellfire Club tonight. A car will be there to pick you up.  
> Jean: Do I get a say in this?  
> Emma: Were you going to decline?  
> Jean: Fair point.  
> Emma: I'll see you at seven sharp.  
> Jean: I have coffee on my shirt.  
> Emma: Of course you do.  
> Jean: And I'm bringing Rachel.
> 
> MESSAGE WITH: Kitty
> 
> Rachel: hey are you up?  
> Kitty: Nope, sound asleep.  
> Rachel: hahahaha  
> Rachel: you busy?  
> Kitty: No, I've just been looking some things up  
> Kitty: Oh crap it's almost 3  
> Rachel: yeah  
> Rachel: SO  
> Rachel: um


End file.
